Sunday, September 17, 2006

I miss you. Already, this space seems too big. And too quiet. (I don't listen to music the way you do. I don't whistle well. I don't sing in the shower.)

I miss the single argyle sock rolled up under the couch. And the smell of freshly-made popcorn when I come up the stairs. I miss the two-person dance parties we had here; we were good at making the cats think we were crazy.

It is weird. I lived alone for so long that all of my plants had names. I remember crying the day you moved all of your things out of the storage locker and into the apartment. I remember thinking: This is too much. I am overwhelmed. And we fought once because I threw away the stack of newspapers you had been saving. And now, anything other than you is not enough.

But the absence is only for a few weeks. Five at most. Maybe six. And when you come back, you will have so many stories to tell. I want to know what the cellar smelled like, and if your hands turned purple, and for how long. (What were the bins named this year? Did you help make the Port? Did you have to work through the night to bring the grapes in on time?)

I want you to tell me about the sky; where you will be, there will be so many stars. And tell me about the oaks. I loved those oaks, the way they stood, gnarled, on the tawny hillside.

Like me, they wait.

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